


As If It Were The Last Time

by Fire_Sign



Category: Miss Fisher's Murder Mysteries
Genre: F/M, Phryne Ficathon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-19
Updated: 2017-10-19
Packaged: 2019-01-19 17:46:01
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 17,667
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12414945
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Fire_Sign/pseuds/Fire_Sign
Summary: When an old friend of Phryne's turns out to be a woman from Jack's past, their quick stop in Casablanca takes an unexpected turn.Prompt- a travelling home fic: On the way home from London Phryne and Jack run into an old friend in Casablanca and a new adventure.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Rithebard](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Rithebard/gifts).



> Another ficathon repost. 
> 
> Original notes:
> 
> This was such a delightful prompt, and I rather ran out of time on researching the setting and did not do it justice. And we won't talk about all the historical details I deliberately ignored... But there's tropes and fun, and that's what really matters?

He’d come after her. Of course he had. He’d arrived at the height of winter, when the days were short and dark and Phryne’s mood not much better after months with her father for company; she’d thrown herself into his arms on the docks, and his well-worn overcoat smelled of Australia. Or perhaps it was that Australia smelled of him. The two had mingled in her memory, until Australia and Jack were one and the same: home. Their weeks in England had been marvellous—adventurous and exciting and silly—and now they were headed home via whatever circuitous route took their fancy. They had gone through France and Spain and were now flying into Casablanca for a few days to visit an old friend of Phryne’s, the port city bustling below them and the water blue-green, before cutting across the top of the continent to catch a boat from Port Said in Egypt.

“It’s beautiful!” Jack called over his shoulder, smile broad; he really had shown a love for travel, to Phryne’s delight.

The airfield was on the outskirts of the city, and Phryne landed the small aircraft with ease. Tossing her avatar cap into the seat as she climbed down, she spied their host in the distance and waved enthusiastically.

“Fiona!” she shouted. “Fiona Blackburn, as I live and breathe.”

The two women headed towards each other, and as their host drew nearer Jack felt a jolt of recognition. Fiona clearly felt it too, because she stopped short.

“Oh, come on Fi, I know it’s been ages but I can’t possibly look that different,” Phryne laughed, unaware of the by-play. Jack barely heard her.

“Miss Dale,” he said stiffly.

“Lance Corporal.”

She sounded exactly the same, a seemingly average voice that was so warm and welcoming you wanted to tell her everything. It had served her well during the war, when she had been one of the most efficient Intelligence agents Jack had had the pleasure of working with. He shifted from one foot to the other, trying to gather his thoughts.

“I was…”

“Under the mistaken impression that I was dead?” Fiona asked.

“Something like that.”

“An exaggeration that served a purpose and was allowed to stand,” said Fiona, waving her hand as if it were no matter at all. “And it’s Blackburn now. How’s Rosie?”

“Well, last time I spoke with her.”

“Bonnie babes?”

“No.”

“Still cycling?”

“When I have the opportunity.”

“Wait,” Phryne interjected, trying to catch up. “You two have met?”

Jack shifted where he stood, uncertain what he could say. He glanced to Fiona; she had ducked her head, her blonde hair falling to obscure her face.

“Uh, yes,” he said, aiming for truthful. “Yes. Fiona and I knew each other many years ago.”

“Knew or—”

He raised an eyebrow, and Phryne decided that perhaps this was not the place to have such a conversation.

“How is it, Miss Fisher, that this is a coincidence that does not surprise me in the least?” he asked, hoping to draw attention away from the questions he could see forming on her lips.

“Well, it’s certainly surprised _me_ ,” she countered, taking his arm. “I could use a drink.”

Jack hadn’t thought of Fiona in years, remembering her as another victim of the war. He supposed he should be more shocked by her reappearance than the simple off-kilter sensation that was already waning, but as it was only the latest in a long line of lies on that front he found he wasn’t. The Intelligence Department had been very good at supplying whatever narrative suited their purposes. As Fiona led Phryne and Jack to her motorcar, chattering away to Phryne about some mutual acquaintance, he tried to reconcile the living woman before him with what he’d believed to be true.

He had first met her in March 1916, after he’d been recruited from the front lines to do Intelligence work instead. Fiona had been working there for over a year already, ostensibly as an errand girl; it hadn’t taken Jack long to realise that it was a ruse, and shortly after that they had run several missions together. Six months after that she had been killed in the line of duty, or so he had been told. He’d been upset, naturally—with her blunt nature and quick mind, she had been the closest he’d had to the friend in the unit—but had never had reason to believe it was anything but the truth. She wasn’t their first loss and hadn’t been their last.

She had been the only one he’d kissed though.

“Jack?”

It was Phryne, looking slightly perturbed. He gave her a small smile as they reached the car.

Phryne wasn’t sure what to make of the afternoon’s development. She’d known Fiona for a long time—Phryne had made some delicate enquiries towards the end of the war, and Fiona had been her contact—but Fiona knowing Jack rather drove home the fact that Phryne only knew as much as Fiona had allowed her to know. And based on their quick exchange, which effectively summarised everything Phryne had learnt of Jack in the first few weeks—if not _months_ —of their acquaintance, Phryne found herself wondering exactly how much she knew about her lover. 

“Yes, Miss Fisher?” said Jack, sliding into the backseat of Fiona’s motorcar.

“Hmm?” She took the seat beside him.

“You said my name.”

“Did I?” she said absently, then leant forward to tell Fiona that they would check into whatever hotel she was staying in and settled back into her seat. 

The journey was silent, all three of them seeming lost in contemplation, and soon enough they arrived at their destination. The hotel was typical of the local style—white or grey buildings with large, arched doorways and brightly coloured zellij friezes as ornamentation—and the hotel concierge spoke French. Taking adjacent rooms but only intending to use one, Phryne and Jack quickly changed into clothes suitable for a casual dinner and rejoined Fiona in the foyer. They made their way to the hotel’s dining room, selecting a quiet corner.

“So,” said Fiona. “I can only presume that _this_ ”—she motioned between Phryne and Jack— “is a positively thrilling tale.”

“I imagine that depends on which of us you ask,” Jack smirked, and Phryne laughed.

“Jack’s a detective inspector in Melbourne,” she said, “and we happened to cross paths shortly after I moved back.”

“By which she means she tricked my constable and broke into a crime scene.”

“Broke into is so harsh. I merely… availed myself of the facilities. That John Andrews had died in that bathroom mere hours before was an unfortunate coincidence.”

“Yes. And then you just happened to wander into a barricaded sauna while naked.”

“Oh no, _that_ I broke into.”

Jack rolled his eyes, and beneath the table his hand came to rest on her thigh, fingers stroking absently.

“And how did you come to be travelling together?” asked Fiona.

Phryne glanced to Jack, whose hand on her leg had tensed.

“Uh, Rosie and I divorced. Just over a year ago.”

“I’m sorry.”

“It was… a long time coming,” Jack said, voice strained. “Phryne and I have gotten quite close since then.”

Which, Phryne thought, was true. Especially if you defined “quite close” as having excellent sex in a variety of locations on a frequent basis. Just last night he’d had her against the wall so efficiently and so loudly they’d nearly gotten kicked out of the hotel room. Perhaps not a topic of conversation for dinner, however. Phryne took a bite of her meal. 

“And what about you and Fiona, Miss Fisher?” Jack asked, raising an eyebrow. “Two rather terrifying peas in a pod, I should think.”

“Far less interesting than you would imagine,” Phryne said. “She was a nurse at a field hospital, and we’ve kept in touch.”

“Ahh,” he said, in that way Phryne knew meant he wasn’t convinced but wouldn’t press further. More evidence that he was aware of Fiona’s occupation at the time.

“Phryne was the best ambulance driver we had,” said Fiona.

“Having experienced her driving, I’m not sure the soldiers would agree,” Jack said dryly.

“Don’t be horrid,” Phryne scolded.

“Yes, Robbo,” agreed Fiona, “don’t be horrid.”

His eyes looked skyward, as if praying for divine intervention, and Phryne leant in to kiss his cheek.

———

Saying goodnight to Fiona at the door of their hotel room—her room was a floor below—Phryne laced her fingers through Jack’s and tugged him through the door, shutting it behind them. She immediately began undressing him, kissing along his neck as she did so.

“You’ve been holding out on me, _Robbo_ ,” she teased.

He managed a confused murmur, his attention on the small buttons along the back of her dress.

“Fiona?” she prompted.

“It’s hardly holding out on you,” he protested. “I _can’t_ talk about it, and until this afternoon I wasn’t aware there was anything to talk about.”

“So you met her…” she raised an eyebrow suggestively.

He sighed, knowing what he said next might follow the letter of the law but not the spirit. He trusted Phryne though, and suspected she was in a similarly awkward position.

“I can neither confirm nor deny that we worked together fifteen years ago, give or take, or if there was… an incident that was as close as I ever came to breaking my marriage vows.”

“Oh,” she said, stepping back. “That is unexpected.”

“Phryne—”

He reached for her, and she shook her head and stepped forward once more. 

“No, Jack. It’s fine,” she said, wrapping her arms around his neck. “I forget, sometimes, that you had an entire life before I ever met you. Of course you did. And as far as old friends go, Fiona is lovely.”

It was silly, and selfish, but there were times she imagined that he had simply existed inside the walls of his office until she had arrived in Melbourne. That he had been waiting for her. Still, he was with her now. She pulled his tie free of his collar and dangled it from her fingers with a suggestive smirk.

“I suppose if you must,” he sighed, a little too dreary to be serious. She did so love his playful side.

“Rest of your kit off then,” she ordered, slipping her own dress off her shoulders. “Then on to the bed.”

He complied, reclining against the pillows and smiling at her. Still in her lingerie, she climbed astride him and kissed him thoroughly. Then she quickly bound his wrists together and secured them to the headboard. They had played this game before, and she was frighteningly adept at the knots; Jack could only presume he had a Portuguese sailor to thank.

“Comfortable?” she asked, and he nodded. “If you want me to stop—”

“Say orchid,” he finished, testing the knots and finding them secure.

“Very good,” she purred, kissing his mouth again and then grinning against it. “And now I’m going to make you talk.”

“Phryne—”

He would tell her anything, give her anything, if he could. But the specifics of this was beyond his powers to grant.

“Not about that, Jack,” she chided, running her fingers against his biceps, flexing slightly with their position. “I wouldn’t ask that. No, I want to hear…” she tongued the hollow of his throat, “exactly…” moved to his nipple, “how much…” his sternum, “you want me.”

He groaned, deep in his chest, and she rewarded him with a soft hand barely brushing his cock as she rose over him once more. His hips thrust up instinctively, seeking pressure.

“That’s cheating,” she scolded him, laughing. “Just for that…”

She crawled up so her breasts were level with his mouth, and he caught one nipple between his lips and sucked gently; he felt her body tense then relax, and she moaned. His cock twitched at the sound, a Pavlovian response; she rocked back onto her knees, firmly out of his reach and therefore rendering him utterly incapable of eliciting such a sound a second time. The silk of her camiknickers was darkened by his mouth, and Jack watched as she trailed a hand up her thigh and across her torso, teasing her breast briefly before divesting herself of the lingerie entirely.

“One moment,” she said, sashaying well across the room with a particularly thorough wriggle; Jack admired the view, wishing he was free to touch her. Especially when she bent over to dig through her bag, retrieving a clamshell case with her diaphragm inside; he must have groaned, because she tossed him a look over her shoulder and made a much larger production of inserting the device than was—strictly speaking—necessary.

She moved back towards the bed, pausing to reapply her lipstick, and kissed him deeply. Her hand slipped down her body, out of his line of sight, but he felt the way she gasped at her own touch, caught wafts of her arousal, the flavour of her lipstick, his mouth salivating at the mingling sensations. After several minutes she pulled away once more, chest heaving, and smiled demurely before moving down to stroke and suck his cock until every line of his body was straining, his breath coming in sharp pants, his mind half-frenzied with the urge to pin her beneath him and make her as desperate for him as he was for her. 

“You like this?” she asked, releasing her hold on him to move level to his eyes once more.

“I want to touch you,” he growled.

She nuzzled his cheek.

“I know you do, darling. Just say the word and I’ll let you free and you can touch me all you want,” she promised with a smirk. “But that doesn’t answer my question.”

“Which was?”

“Do you like this? Knowing I could do anything to you right now? That I could make you come or leave you desperate for relief? That I want you so badly I’m practically dripping and you can’t do a thing about it?”

He closed his eyes, fighting for self-control. “Phryne…”

“Yes?”

A twitch of his cheek, his Adam’s apple bobbing as he swallowed hard. “Fuck me.”

“Are you sure?” she teased. “I mean, I could just—”

“No,” he said confidently. “I want—oh Christ!”

She’d grasped his cock again, sheathing him within her in one quick motion.

“Phryne,” he moaned, eyes screwed tight. “Move. Please.”

She rose up and then back down, slowly at first but increasing the tempo in response to his reactions; he was eyeing her breasts, so she caressed them each in turn, biting her bottom lip as she rode him towards their mutual climax. Almost there, she reached between them to stroke her clit and came with a shout. Her clenching walls and cries of pleasure pushed Jack over the edge as well, thrusting up to meet her. 

Resting her hands on his shoulders, she looked down to a thoroughly disheveled Jack Robinson and smiled at him tenderly. She unknotted the tie, checking his wrists perfunctorily, and then rolled off him to lie down; pressing her cheek against his bare chest, she listened for his heartbeat. It slowed and his breath evened out, both of them drifting to a state of near-sleep.

“I love you,” she murmured.

It wasn’t the first time she had said it. She hadn’t even realised, in the beginning, that he had never said it back; he had told her so many times in so many ways that the words, or lack thereof, did not register—it was in every secretive smile, every “Phryne”, every teasing response to her proclamation, every moment they shared. But the silence was growing louder, and she waited tensely for his response.

He drew his arm around her, holding her tight, and remained silent. Eventually they both drifted off, wrapped in each other.

Jack was deep in slumber when the knock at the door came; he glanced at the bedside clock—just gone two in the morning—and nudged Phryne off of him. She grumbled sleepily but did not wake, and he felt a smile tug at the corner of his mouth. The knock came again, slightly more insistent.

“Just a moment,” he called out, hoping it was loud enough to carry but quiet enough for Phryne to sleep through it.

He stood and moved to his half-unpacked bag, left on a chair, and pulled out a pair of silk pyjamas Phryne had insisted on buying in Paris. It was a completely unnecessary indulgence, but it had pleased her. What they _had_ pleased her. It was… he smiled, looking towards her once more. She’d rolled over, and was giving a soft, huffing snore with every breath; whatever he had imagined on his journey to London was nothing compared to what he had found. He finished buttoning the shirt.

The knock came a third time, and he put on his slippers and made his way to the door.

“Yes?”

No answer. There was no peephole to peer through, but the knocker was persistent. Half asleep and far from his life as a police officer, he presumed it was a drunken guest at the wrong door and rolled his eyes as he opened it.

It wasn’t.

  



	2. Chapter 2

The alarm clock went off at a quarter past eight, a clanging ring that always drove Phryne mad. When it wasn’t silenced immediately—it was on Jack’s side and he was always efficient in turning it off, preferring to wake her himself—Phryne cracked open one eye and realised he was not in the bed. Peculiar. They were supposed to meet Fiona for shopping in Casablanca’s teeming marketplace at half-nine. Still, perhaps he’d woken early and gotten out of bed to keep from disturbing her.

She turned off the alarm and pushed the covers off, donning a green silk robe as she stood and padded to the en suite bathroom in search of him. He wasn’t there, so she ran herself a hot bath and took a short soak, contemplating the day ahead. When the water began to cool, she climbed from the tub and wrapped a large towel around herself before returning to the bedroom. There was still no sign of Jack, so Phryne called down to room service for a breakfast for one. Then she dressed in a silk blouse and skirt, light enough for the Moroccan weather, and took a quick look around the room to see if he’d left a note. He hadn’t, but before she could question it there was a knock at the door.

She hurried across the room and swung it open, a teasing reprimand already forming, then realised it was her breakfast. She stepped aside and motioned the man in, thanking him as he laid out the food and left. With no dining table in the room, Phryne opted for breakfast in bed, and she settled in with a French-language newspaper, a cup of coffee, and a plate of toast and eggs, and waited. He’d be back soon.

When Jack still hadn’t returned by quarter after nine, Phryne had progressed from surprised to irritated. It was one thing to take your time when it was your own schedule, but she disliked inconveniencing others; it seemed quite unlike _Jack_ to do so, but perhaps he’d decided to take a walk or eat breakfast elsewhere and lost track of the time. At the thought she glanced towards the bedside table and realised his watch was still there; laying her breakfast tray aside, she rolled over to the far side of the bed and picked it up. The watch was heavy in her hands, and she turned it over—it was such a part of him she found herself unable to imagine him wandering the narrow streets of Casablanca without it. Getting out of bed and tucking it into her purse, Phryne decided to head to Fiona’s hotel room.

The corridor was empty despite the hour, and Phryne found herself glancing over her shoulder several times as she headed towards the lift. There was nobody there, and she laughed and rolled her eyes at herself—simply travelling with a man should not throw her this off-balance when he was not around. It was absurd, and entirely unsustainable. Knocking on Fiona’s door, she found herself doing it once more.

“Who is it?”

“Phryne.”

“Is Jack with you?” Fiona called; Phryne could hear her moving around the room.

“No. Why?”

Fiona opened the door, still in her pyjamas and robe, and brushed her hair out of her eyes.

“Sorry,” she said, “I slept right through my alarm. Come in.”

She stepped aside, and Phryne followed her in. Shutting the door again, Fiona moved to a wardrobe where her outfits were hung.

“Is Jack coming later then?” she asked, head buried in her clothing. “Or is it just us for the day?”

“Uh, I’m not actually sure,” Phryne admitted. “He wasn’t there when I woke up. I had half a hope he’d come down to see you early, to let me sleep.”

“Not that I know of,” said Fiona with a frown. “Does he often wander off? Perhaps you ought to put him on a lead.”

Phryne laughed. “More likely it was his stomach,” she said. “Shall we head down to the restaurant once you’re dressed and see if we can find him?”

Fiona muttered an agreement, selecting a dark green day dress and holding it up for examination. Satisfied, she quickly shed her robe and pulled it on, then brushed her hair and swept it into a chignon—the whole thing was quick and efficient, taking less than five minutes from sleep-addled to ready for the day.

“So, you’ve done a lot of travelling?” Phryne asked, to make conversation.

“Yes,” replied Fiona. “I can’t seem to settle anywhere for longer than a few months.”

“You ought to come to Australia,” Phryne laughed. “We’re so far from anywhere interesting that it will cure you of wanderlust quick enough.”

“Are you sure it’s the geography keeping you there? From your letters I got the impression it was the people, even if you never mentioned Jack.”

Phryne laughed again. Her letters to friends away from Melbourne had happily spoken of Jane and Dot, of mutual acquaintances and society gossip, of one-time lovers of particular interest, and of her investigations; she had rarely mentioned Jack though, first out of a vague respect for his privacy and later because… well, she was never quite certain. Concerned it would give the wrong impression, perhaps.

“Not by name, at least.”

“Ahh, so he’s the maddening police officer you alluded to?”

“One and the same. Though perhaps my early letters were unnecessarily harsh in my criticisms. He’s really remarkably flexible, if you’re on the right side.”

Fiona wagged her eyebrows suggestively. “I just bet he is. How long have you…?” 

“Not nearly long enough, if you ask me.”

“Did Phryne Fisher find a man who could resist her charms?” Fiona asked in mock horror, grabbing her handbag from the small writing desk.

“I wore him down eventually. Now it’s just breaking him in.”

Even as the words were said Phryne winced; it was the casual attitude she had towards her flings, where there was a mutual understanding that the circumstances were transitory. She was not entirely certain what this relationship with Jack would entail—they had discussed very little of the specifics, preferring to leave that discussion until they were closer to Melbourne—but it felt flippant to treat it in that manner. She moved to open the door, giving herself time to recover, and by the time the two women had headed to the lift the conversation had moved on to the history of several local sights.

Jack was not in the restaurant and had not left a message at the front desk, so Phryne left him a note instead, outlining their itinerary and promising to be back at the hotel by noon and that they would meet him for lunch at the hotel restaurant.

As they made their way through the market stalls selling all manners of goods—fabrics and spices and perfumes and odd little trinkets, of course, but also French pastries and all sorts of things Phryne never would have expected—they chatted about places they had travelled to, things they had done. It was not the deep friendship she shared with Mac or the mentor relationship she shared with Dot, but it was a very pleasant way to spend a few hours, even if both women did keep an eye open for a familiar figure cutting through the crowds. He did not appear though, and so they headed back to the hotel for lunch. 

When they arrived, Phryne brought her purchases up to the room; still no word from Jack, and as she was leaving again she realised that his fedora was hung up next to his coat—the latter was not a surprise, given the weather, but she hadn’t noticed the hat earlier. An odd suspicion filled her gut, and she glanced beneath the bed. His shoes were still there. His hat. His watch. She hurried to the wardrobe and realised all of his suits were accounted for.

Right, well, this was odd. Very odd. And though she tried very hard to convince herself that there would a perfectly logical explanation, tendrils of dread—oh! She’d completely forgotten that they had taken the adjacent room; it was very likely he’d gone to sleep there instead for whatever reason and simply slept very late. Feeling like a fool for her brief panic, she picked up her handbag once more and went next door to wake him up.

———

Jack was no stranger to head injuries—a proclivity that predated his acquaintance with Phryne Fisher, as much as he liked to joke that it was an occupational hazard around her—but as he came to he realised this one was a doozy. He groggily tried to take stock of his situation. He was on his back on a narrow bed, his arms—he tugged quickly—fastened to the headboard with an unforgiving length of rope. He attempted to slide off the bed, hoping that with his feet on the ground he could gain enough leverage to loosen the ropes, but couldn’t manage; he shuffled up the mattress slightly instead, which gave him no more slack in his bonds but reduced the stress on his shoulders at least. His head was pulsing with every beat of his heart, which was making the rest of his surroundings rather difficult to ascertain.

He was in a small room with a high ceiling, the only light coming from a small window near the roof. Even if he did escape the rope, he wouldn’t be able to get out that way. The only door appeared heavy, and was most likely bolted from the outside. The room was otherwise bare, with stone floors and walls; a warehouse, possibly. He closed his eyes, but could not make out any sounds of use over the ringing in his ears. Right, escape was unlikely then, at least as things stood.

Closing his eyes, he tried to remember how he had gotten there: he recalled the knock at the door, getting dressed, opening it. There had been a man who looked slightly familiar on the other side, pointing a gun directly at Jack.

“Come with me,” he had said. “Quietly, or that nosey little whore of yours will get a bullet between the eyes.”

Jack had raised his hands and complied, knowing that Phryne was still asleep and utterly defenseless behind him. He had tried to speak just little too loud, shut the door a little too firmly, but she didn’t wake up; her ability to sleep through anything was charming, most of the time. As he’d headed down the hotel corridor, he could not help but wonder whether he would ever have another chance to tease her about it, to wake her with kisses to her shoulder until she stretched languidly and rolled over to meet his eyes with a small smile. Not the sort of thoughts that would get him out of the situation, so he had focused on that instead. The gun had been pressed to the small of his back as he made his way down the corridor—the best he could do was stumble by the back staircase intended for staff, scuffing the baseboard and managing to dislodge a button from the cuff of his pyjamas with a quick flick of his fingers. It wasn’t much, but it would give Phryne some direction at least.

They had made their way down the stairwell, which was too narrow for Jack to attempt escape; the abductor knew what he was doing, it seemed. Once outside, he had been forced into the backseat of a car—Jack expected a bag over his face and to be bound, but the butt of the revolver had collided with his head instead and it all went dark.

———

There was no answer when she knocked on the door, and a twist of the handle revealed that it was locked. Glancing down the corridor to ensure nobody was coming, she quickly extracted her lockpick and had the door opened in under a minute. A fact Jack would no doubt reprimand her for, she thought with a small smile as she stepped into the darkened room and flipped on the light, the heavy curtains blocking out the noonday sun.

At least, he would have reprimanded her if he was there. But not only was he not, there were no signs he ever had been—the bed was still made, the towels untouched, nothing to indicate that the room had been entered since they’d gotten the key the day before.

“Phryne?”

She jumped and spun around, realising it was Fiona.

“Jack’s not back yet,” she explained. “I thought he might have come to sleep in here—he grumbles about my sleeping habits often enough—but…”

“That doesn’t sound like the Jack Robinson I knew,” Fiona said, eyes roaming over the room as if to confirm Phryne’s conclusions. “But that was quite some time ago.”

“It doesn’t sound like the one I know either,” replied Phryne, “but none of this is making any sense. I’m having a hard time believing that he’d have gone for a walk without letting me know when to expect him back, especially when we had plans. And that was before I realised the only things missing are slippers and pyjamas. Which made sense if he’d decided to move rooms to sleep, but…”

“Where do you think he’s gone then?” Fiona asked.

Phryne didn’t have any idea, and tamping down the first initial panic at the idea—the memories of disappearances of her loved ones were never far away—decided that the only option was to figure it out. She strode across the room and drew the curtains, glancing out the window to confirm there was no way out of either room but the doors. There wasn’t, and she closed the curtains and hurried out of the room, Fiona coming behind.

“He wasn’t in there at all, as far as I can tell,” she said, nodding towards the room they’d just vacated. “And I didn’t see anything in our room, which means…” she’d reached the door to the room they had shared, and studied the carpet carefully, “he left via this door, wearing nothing but pyjamas.”

She walked slowly towards the lift, searching for any indication of Jack. Nothing, and when she glanced up saw Fiona shake her head—she hadn’t found anything either. The other direction then. At the end of the corridor, near a service stairwell, Phryne saw a small scuff mark on the baseboard. Hardly unusual for a hotel, even a high-end one, but it was the first sign of anything amiss. Two steps further along she stopped, crouching down to examine…

“Ohh…” she breathed, and Fiona came over to see what had caught Phryne’s eye.

It was a gold and opal button, and Jack had rolled his eyes when Phryne had insisted on purchasing the pyjamas it had come on. Pyjamas that were far too expensive to lose a button accidentally.

“It’s Jack’s?” Fiona asked.

“Afraid so,” Phryne said, forcing as much bravado into her voice as she could manage.

Internally, her heart was thumping erratically as she attempted to take stock of the situation: Jack was, it appeared, missing. And not by choice, given the scuffing and the button. He’d been gone at least four hours, no more than twelve—they’d gone to sleep around midnight the night before. They’d hardly been in Casablanca long enough to gain a reputation of wealth if this was a kidnapping for ransom, nor did they know anyone but Fiona in the city. At least as far as Phryne knew; there was always the chance it was yet another secret in the life of Jack Robinson.

“I think we ought to call the police,” said Phryne.

Fiona paled, just for a moment.

“Perhaps we ought to ask around first?” she suggested. “The _gendarmes_ are not the sort to be concerned with a missing tourist, I’m afraid.”

“I think you’ll find I have quite enough money to _make_ them concerned,” said Phryne. “And I’d think they would be worried about one of their own. Unless there’s some detail you’ve neglected to tell me?”

Fiona glanced down the hallway, then motioned towards the staff stairs with her head. Phryne followed her lead; once they were both on the other side of the door, Fiona sighed.

“I can’t say for certain,” she said, “but I suspect I know who is behind this. And we really don’t want the police involved.”


	3. Chapter 3

Phryne crossed her arms and stared at Fiona.

“Talk.”

“Come to my room,” Fiona said quietly, gesturing towards the stairs.

“No,” asserted Phryne, immovable. “Not until you answer my question. Where is Jack Robinson?”

“I don’t know.”

“That’s not good enough. Talk.”

“Phryne—”

“I have known you for well over a decade, but so help me Fi…”

Phryne wasn’t even sure how to end her threat. It was all too familiar a position, and yet so uncharted a territory. When Janey had disappeared, she’d been young. Frantic. Desperate for someone solid; not to lean on but to bounce against, a boundary in her movement. But her sister was gone, her mother nearly catatonic with grief, her Aunt Prudence trying but needing to hep Arthur first. Dear, sweet Arthur who had seen the woodsman. Her father hardly rated a mention, so used to his absence that Phryne never even thought to look to him. No, it had been just Phryne, alone. And she had survived it, because she always survived, but the memory was woven so deeply into her that when Jane had disappeared (twice) she’d been terrified and erratic—rudderless and directionless, facing fears new and old and desperate once more for someone solid to bump up against. She’d found it then, in Jack’s solidity but also in his fury, in his determination, in the way he took command when she was too flustered to be methodical.

And so, if the possibility of Jack Robinson disappearing had ever crossed her mind—and it had not—she would have expected much of the same. It was not something she was proud of, simply the result of too much experience. But all Phryne felt at this moment was pure, hard fury: someone had taken Jack, and they were going to have to go through her if they wanted to keep him.

Fiona glanced down the stairs again.

“I can’t talk about it here,” she whispered. “I shouldn’t talk about it at all, but if I’m right… just, come down to my room.”

Taking the staff stairs down a floor, Phryne following, Fiona continued glancing around. The movement set Phryne’s nerves on end, and she found herself reaching for the pistol in her handbag—carried more out of habit than any foresight—and wondering whether it was in defense of her old friend or fear of her.

Fiona’s room was near the stair-end of the corridor, and was identical to the rooms Phryne and Jack had taken: a bed, a writing desk, a wardrobe and a chest of drawers, and an en suite lavatory. Fiona checked the latter and the lock on the windows before turning to Phryne.

“Has Jack ever mentioned what he did during the war?” she asked.

“Just enough to get the impression there was a lot he wasn’t saying,” Phryne answered truthfully. “But as I felt much the same…”

“Well, that’s how we knew each other.”

“Yes, I had gathered that,” said Phryne dryly, “though he was less clear about whether it was _knew_ in the Biblical sense.”

She wasn’t entirely certain why she said it; Jack had said they’d come close but not crossed the line, and she had no reason to doubt him. And even if he had, it had no real bearing on today. Perhaps it was simply that it was easier to play jealous then to confront the growing fear in her stomach, threatening to usurp her calm control.

Fiona didn’t respond, crossing the small room to extract some papers from her wardrobe.

“There was a… contact,” she said, handing over the files. “Charles Marchwood. I think he might have crossed paths with Jack once or twice. They worked in the same circles, at least. All three of us did.”

Phryne opened the folder; it was a thorough dossier on the man, complete with a photo that was no doubt several years out of date.

“And…?” she prompted, eyes skimming the papers.

“He sold information to the Germans,” Fiona said. “Cost us a lot of good men and disappeared with the profits.”

“It says here he’s dead,” Phryne noted.

“Mhmm. There was a body that matched his description and no proof he’d crossed us, so the brass called him deceased and told me to drop the investigation.”

“When was this?”

“Twelve years ago.”

“And Jack…”

“Wasn’t involved at all. About a year earlier I was declared dead after a… particularly close call. New surname, new location. I was shocked when I crossed paths with Charles again, while I was stationed as matron at the hospital where I met you, but it happened. We worked together a few times, which is how I realised…” Fiona hesitated. “He has a lot of blood on his hands. Good men.”

“What does this have to do with Jack now?”

“I haven’t been travelling for pleasure, Phryne,” Fiona said deliberately.

“You’ve been tracking him,” realised Phryne.

“Him, and others like him. He’s last on the list.”

“And he’s in Casablanca?”

Fiona nodded. “Under the name Andrew Ward. He’s spun his blood money into quite the smuggling empire. Him and his wife, Bonnie. Marchwood’s got the local police so far into his pocket that going to them about Jack would get back to him before we left the station.”

Phryne closed the folder, slamming it onto the writing desk she was leaning against.

“Why didn’t you tell us?”

“You mean aside from the fact that breaking my silence amounts to treason?” Fiona shot back. “As far as I knew, he didn’t know I was here, and had no reason to connect me with either of you.”

“Jack and I had to declare our names when we landed, “ Phryne said, piecing things together. “If he recognised Jack’s name…”

“He would have looked into it, no matter how common the name,” Fiona said. “He’s incredibly cautious, which is how he’s escaped capture so long. I’ve rented this room under the name Mary Barnum.”

“But he could have seen you with us last night.”

“I got… cocky. Lazy. I’ve been here three months without a hint he realised, and… I wanted to see you, Phryne. There is a lot to recommend this nomadic life, but it gets lonely.”

Phryne remembered her own travels, flinging from adventure to adventure; she had loved it. Did love it. But there had been something in stepping off the boat in Melbourne to Mac’s waiting arms, in finding the home she had not realised she wanted, a safe place to return to. In discovering a family, some new and some old. She could not imagine giving it up, now that she had it.

“So he took Jack as a warning?” Phryne asked, refusing the contemplate the possibility that the warning came in the form of murder. Surely if that had been the message he would have done it at the hotel room rather than risk the abduction. She had to believe that.

“I suspect so. Or possibly as a bargaining chip.”

“Jack’s life for Marchwood’s freedom.”

“It’s possible.”

“That’s good. It means that Jack is worth more to him alive,” Phryne reasoned, some tiny, atavistic part of her aware of how horrific the statement was. She couldn’t dwell, couldn’t change what had already happened. She just had to… she reached into her purse, finding the watch she had so casually tossed into it that morning, and squeezed it until she could feel the solid shape of the watch face against her palm. Right. “What do we do?”

“We can wait until Marchwood contacts us—”

“No. There’s no telling how long that will be, and I’m not waiting. He could lose his bottle and decide to kill Jack, or Jack could do something reckless and get himself shot…” 

“We press Marchwood and he’s more likely to panic, Phryne, and he is not a man you want backed into a corner.”

“Then we figure out where he’s holding Jack,” said Phryne firmly. “Get in and get him out, and deal with Marchwood later.”

“Twelve years of searching—”

“This isn’t up for discussion, Fi. Jack Robinson is the assignment, and if you don’t want to take it I will go in myself.”

Fiona sighed. “He owns or has contacts with half the warehouses in Casablanca, and a similar number of businesses. And that’s just in the city—there are boats in and out of here all the time, and who can guess how many places he has outside of the city. We start looking and he’ll know.”

“He’s probably been watching us all day,” Phryne pointed out. “We need to go downstairs for lunch as if nothing has changed, and then we have to figure out the likeliest place for Jack to be held so we can hit it first.”

Fiona nodded.

“All the world’s a stage,” she said, giving Phryne a small, strained smile.

And it was so very reminiscent of investigations with Jack that Phryne had to bite her cheek to keep from crying.

———

Jack wasn’t certain how long he’d been held in the room; the light from the small window had faded but not gone entirely, so he presumed it was evening. Probably of the first day; he couldn’t imagine he’d been unconscious for long enough to have missed more than that. The fog in his brain had cleared, which was more a curse than a blessing: There was still no escape route to be discovered, he hadn’t been able to identify the abductor, and spending several hours alone with your thoughts and facing your mortality was never a pleasant thing.

He thought of Phryne. How could he not? She would be looking for him, and knowing her she wouldn’t stop until she’d found him. Whether she found him in time was another matter, and the idea that she would find his body was almost worse than the idea there could be a body to find—he’d faced death too many times to for it to hold the same depth of horror. He didn’t _wish_ to die, and he wasn’t going to go easily, but it would happen eventually. But her finding him… it was too reminiscent of the death of Gertie Haynes, of that twisting agony deep in his gut. He would never want that for her.

He wondered if she would regret it, if this leap of faith costing so much so soon would mean she wished she had never made it. He doubted it; that was not who she was, not so easily deterred by grief.

He had never told her he loved her. Oh, he was certain that she _knew_ , had known well before an airfield months before, but he had never said the words. He told himself it was to keep from frightening her, as if following her halfway around the world was less of a declaration than three syllables, but she had told him so easily mere days after his arrival and the response had caught in his throat. He’d rolled her over and made love to her instead, and told himself he would do better the next time.

He hadn’t.

And now here he was, six weeks later, and whatever superstition had gripped his throat had not saved him from disaster. He was no less vulnerable; he did not care less, it would not hurt less, it did not mean less. The words had not been a talisman, an omen, a prayer only to be uttered when all other hope had fled; he could not save them for another time. That Miss Fisher had known this and he had not would only be a surprise to those who did not know them, who thought her nothing more than a vivacious woman and him a serious man. 

Well, he’d learnt, and if he was going to do a damned thing about it he would need to get out of here. He flexed his hands again and again, hoping to loosen the rope the tiniest amount—if he could slip it above the wrist and onto the palm of his hand it would be easier to stretch it. Not by much, but with enough time possibly enough he could free the hand entirely. He’d felt the first hint of slack when he heard footsteps outside the door—not Phryne’s, he thought—and pretended to be unconscious. The door opened, and he heard his captor approaching the bed.

“You are a lightweight,” the man murmured, “but just in case…”

Jack felt the prick of a needle, and then his limbs growing heavy. _Well, that would explain the grogginess_ , he thought as consciousness abandoned him.

———

After lunch, Phryne and Fiona returned to Fiona’s room, the latter extracting a pile of coded notes from a small pocket at the bottom of her mattress.

“This is everything I’ve managed to uncover about Marchwood’s operations in Morocco,” she said, handing over some of the papers. “It’s a basic substitution cipher. Codeword zebra.” 

Phryne groaned, knowing that it would take them hours to translate the notes. Hours that Jack might not have.

“You couldn’t have just written these in English?” she asked pointedly, a tiny part of her just cynical enough to wonder if Fiona was simply stalling for time. Just a twinge, and she felt horrible for it immediately, but under the circumstances she could not help being suspicious of everything.

“You should be thankful it’s this straightforward,” Fiona replied tartly, spreading out a map of the city over the bedspread. “If we mark likely targets in red, we might be able to see a pattern.”

Extracting a notebook and pen from her handbag, hand brushing against Jack’s watch once more, Phryne settled on the floor to begin her translations. Fiona sat several feet away, head bent over her own pile of papers. It was slow going—even once translated via the cipher, Fiona had used unconventional shorthand that Phryne had to clarify—but eventually they settled into a rhythm. Phryne began to recognise certain words and phrases that made it quicker, and what could be discarded became clearer until they were working at a decent speed.

They were several hours into the investigation, with half a dozen properties marked on the map, when Fiona coughed.

“Phryne, Jack and I…” said Fiona, “It was never… romantic. Physically. We were—”

“In the middle of war, life was fleeting, complicated feelings were bound to arise, et cetera,” said Phryne bluntly, not looking up from the papers she was scouring. “I’m not jealous.”

“Phryne—”

“I’m not jealous,” Phryne repeated sincerely, flipping to another page. “I’m unapologetically _greedy_ , however, and I don’t particularly enjoy being reminded that other people possess things I can never have, or that things I thought were mine alone have been shared with others.”

It was not until the words were out of her mouth that she realised it was true; she would not blink—at least not much—to realise that he had had feelings for other women in the past. She’d be a horrible hypocrite if she did, and she had no doubt in his feelings for her now; jealousy at this juncture was entirely unnecessary. The fact that Jack appeared to have had a working relationship with Fiona in addition to their friendship was less easy to accept; Phryne had thought that their partnership, their silent communication and shared experiences, their tentative exposures of their pasts and their dreams of the future… those had been things she thought solely her purview, that she had somehow been just the right combination of clever and determined and charming to break through his solitude and establish a relationship both personal and professional. Terribly unbecoming, but there it was. 

It did not matter now though, because her attentions were focused on recovering him. Anything else would need to wait.

“I’ve never had Jack look at me the way he—”

“I appreciate the sentiment,” Phryne cut in, “but it’s entirely unnecessary. I shouldn’t have insinuated otherwise.”

“It’s important that you know though, in case—”

“Nothing is going to happen to him.”

“Of course not. But he wouldn’t be in this mess if I hadn’t—”

Phryne raised her hand.

“Stop. Please. I am not here to blame you, but I’m not going to absolve you of whatever guilt you feel is required. I can’t. I need to…” the panic that Phryne had so far managed to ignore in favour of fury was threatening to overwhelm her, and she squeezed her hands into fists, fingernails digging into the fleshy base of her palms, and tried to calm herself. “I need to focus on the case, because the minute I stop I’m going to realise that the man I love is being held hostage by a man so brutal British Intelligence has been tracking him for over a decade.”

Fiona made a murmur in response and Phryne froze, one hand in the midst of turning the page.

“Fi?”

“I’m not… I left the Intelligence service five years ago.”

“Why?”

“I was asked to leave,” Fiona said. “They felt that I was no longer suitable for the job given my… unofficial pursuits.” 

“Marchwood?”

Fiona shrugged. “He was dead, after all.”

“And so this is what?” asked Phryne, incredulous. “A personal vendetta?”

“Justice, Phryne. I’m sure you recognise the impulse?”

It was a low blow—Fiona had known about Janey, all those years ago—and Phryne muttered a curse she usually reserved for particularly good sex and closed her eyes.

“So not only are the police of Casablanca in Charles Marchwood’s pocket, but we have no assistance from the British government.”

“I thought you enjoyed breaking the rules.”

Phryne had no answer for that, so she opened her eyes and gazed at Fiona piercingly.

“What, exactly, were you going to do with the man, once you’d proven… what were you even trying to prove, Fiona?”

“That he was alive, to begin with.”

“Which wouldn’t have required all of this,” Phryne said, gesturing to the piles of notes they were surrounded with.

“And that he had profited and was continuing to profit from information he sold to the Germans during the war.”

“Well, there’s certainly evidence of that. So why haven’t you delivered him to the government wrapped in brown paper?”

“I needed more. It had to be completely foolproof. If I approached my former colleagues with even the tiniest hole in my story…”

“Having to be twice as good to be thought half as competent?” Phryne asked.

“Yet more pleasures of being a woman in a man’s profession. They were quite happy to have my services during the war, but then the men came back and I was back to scraping for the tiniest shreds of respect.”

“And you thought that bringing Marchwood in would change that?”

Fiona snorted. “Of course it wouldn’t change it. I’m not a fool, Phryne. But he needed to pay for what he did, and they were all too happy to close the investigation and pretend it never happened. I couldn’t let that stand. It wasn’t just soldiers he betrayed, but civilians as well. I was…” Fiona’s voice grew haunted, a tone Phryne recognised in many veterans of the war. “I was first on the scene in the aftermath.”

“Alright,” Phryne said, laying a hand on Fiona’s knee. “We’ll try to find a way to keep this investigation intact, but our top priority—”

“Is getting Jack out,” Fiona finished. “I quite agree.”

Both women turned back to their translations, pausing only briefly to have dinner ordered up to the room. It was well past midnight when they were done. Twenty buildings were marked on the map, and Phryne’s eyes were literally blurring with exhaustion.

“We should get some sleep,” Fiona said. “Revisit our notes and see if we can narrow it down further in the morning.”

“I—”

“I want to keep working too, Phryne. But I would never forgive myself if we missed a detail from lack of sleep and it cost Jack his life.”

It was a gallingly logical argument, but Phryne could not imagine sleeping. Still, a few hours of darkness would do wonders for her eyes if nothing else, and she wearily made her way to the floor above and into her bed. Much to her surprise, she fell into a deep sleep almost instantly.


	4. Chapter 4

The sky outside Phryne’s bedroom was a slightly lighter shade of grey when she woke up, the moment when sunrise was no more than a promise, and in her half-asleep state she reached across the bed and found it cold. Confusion hit her first, then grief as she remembered where her companion had gone. Where Jack had gone. Pushing herself up, she attempted to ignore the absence—he was supposed to be in her bed, the idea of waking up without him there almost unimaginable, and the _implications_ of this and the realisation that it was not a luxury she would have in Melbourne if, indeed, they even made it back… she could not face any of it, so she moved towards the shower instead.

The hot water woke her up, and within half an hour she was back at Fiona’s room and knocking.

“I’ve already ordered up coffee,” said Fiona when she opened the door. “Thankfully the hotel is discreet enough not to question why.”

“Only hotels worth staying with,” Phryne replied, a small part of her usual insouciance firmly in place. “Where are we starting?”

Fiona has once again laid out the map on the newly-made bed, markers still in place.

“I’ve been thinking we can rule out these three,” she said, pointing to a cluster. “I remembered last night that there’s a great deal of construction going on in the area, night and day trying to finish on schedule. Marchwood wouldn’t want to risk being seen arriving with another man.”

“Are we certain it would be Marchwood himself?”

“I think so,” said Fiona. “He’d hire someone to tail us, but when it comes to blurring his past life with his present… he’d try to avoid it if he could.”

“Alright, so that leaves seventeen buildings that are secure, currently not in use, and accessible. This should be easy to narrow down,” said Phryne dryly.

There was a knock at the door, and a call of “Room service!” Fiona and Phryne both paused, and Phryne drew and readied her gun as Fiona approached the door. Fiona stood to the side, giving Phryne a clear shot if it was not a member of the hotel staff. With a slight nod of her head, she swung open the door, revealing a boy of about sixteen wearing a poorly fitted hotel uniform and pushing a cart with a carafe of coffee and two cups. Phryne made certain the gun was out of sight and smiled at the boy as he wheeled the cart into the room. Fiona thanked him and pressed a coin into his hand, which would hopefully buy his silence.

When he was gone again, Phryne released a shaky breath and smiled at her friend.

“I am definitely in need of that coffee,” she said, taking an offered cup.

Sipping the strong drink, she eyed the map once more.

“He’d want multiple escape routes,” Phryne said. “Easy ones. But not the most obvious building, unless he’s the type to go for a double bluff?”

“Too big a risk. He’s not a gambler.”

“Well, that knocks off another dozen buildings,” Phryne said, pointing each one out with her argument for why it was not the best choice, and Fiona concurred.

The final five were far more difficult to eliminate, and by noon there were still three contenders: two warehouses by the docks, and a former commercial abattoir Marchwood had purchased six months previously. The former abattoir had better escape access, but the warehouses were closer to Marchwood’s home and therefore more easily accessible if he was holding Jack personally.

“What do your instincts say?” Phryne asked. “You’ve been tracking this guy for years…”

Fiona contemplated for a moment, rereading notes she’d made on each of the buildings.

“The abattoir makes the most sense,” she said finally. “I can’t imagine why Marchwood purchased it in the first place—he’s never dabbled in foodstuffs before, even in his legitimate business interests. It’s been closed for well over a year and the equipment sold off, so it would be a poor investment either way. It’s not located in a particularly desirable section of town, so I doubt he bought it for the land…”

“But you’re not convinced?” Phryne asked.

“No. I keep coming back to this warehouse,” Fiona said, jabbing her finger to one of the markers. “It will be used for shipments, but not for another few days at least—he likes to rotate the warehouses receiving his goods. It’s empty, and the furthest off the obvious path while still being accessible.”

“Cautious rather than smart.”

Fiona nodded.

“We’re only going to get one chance at this,” Phryne said, knowing the warning was unnecessary.

Fiona nodded, her lips twisting into a grimace. “Maybe we should revisit the other possibilities?”

“No,” said Phryne, voice firm despite her inner turmoil. “Jack’s has been gone too long. We haven’t heard a thing from Marchwood. Most ransom demands come in the first 24 hours. We need to act, not second-guess ourselves.”

“We’ll order up lunch,” Fiona said. “See if things look different after and go from there.”

Reluctant, Phryne acquiesced. Whatever they ended up doing, a full stomach and a clear head were the best choice. Waiting impotently for the food to arrive, she was once again forced to confront the possibility that no matter how good they were, Jack might already be gone. The food tasted of ash when it arrived, heavy lumps catching in her throat. When the meal was done, she gave Fiona a wan smile.

“I need to go back to my room for a moment,” she said. “No matter where we end up heading, I imagine spare bullets would be useful?”

Fiona agreed, clearing the lunch plates, and Phryne made her way up a floor and into the hotel room. Shutting the door behind her, she pressed her forehead to the wood and took several deep breaths. She was alright. She would get through this. They both would. She couldn’t fall apart now, no matter how desperate the voices in her mind sounded as they contemplated and discarded many options. Jack was dead, injured, lost forever, found just in time to witness his death or hers…

She pushed off the wood, grabbing the spare ammunition and double checking that Jack’s watch was still in her handbag and ticking along. It was ridiculous to think of it as a talisman, but as long as the watch was ticking so was he. She had to believe that.

———

When she had regained her composure, Phryne returned to Fiona’s room. Knocking a quick, familiar rhythm to let Fiona know it was her, she entered and found Fiona sitting on the bed with her head in her hands.

“Well,” Fiona said, not looking up, “we were right about the warehouse.”

Phryne felt her stomach plummet and her heart leap into her throat at the same moment, in defiance of all anatomical possibility. A dozen options filled her mind, all of them unacceptable.

“What’s happened?” she asked, coming to sit beside her friend.

Fiona handed over an envelope.

“This was just pushed beneath the door,” she said.

Phryne opened it, pulling out the paper inside. It was from Marchwood, addressed to Miss Barnum—Fiona’s pseudonym with the hotel, Phryne remembered—and requesting that she and “her little friend” meet him at the given address—it was the same warehouse they had decided Jack was likely being held—and assuring them that his guest was still alive.

The sheer relief that filled Phryne at the words made her hands tremble.

“This is good.”

“No, it’s not. We have no backup, no advantage of surprise…”

“He clearly wants something from us.”

“Yes,” Fiona agreed, “but we can’t rule out the possibility that what he _wants_ is us dead.”

“We can’t ignore this though.”

“No. The assurance Jack is alive was no doubt a reminder that he did not need to stay that way.”

“But it’s likely a trap.”

“Very likely.”

“What’s our best case scenario?” Phryne asked, folding and refolding the letter absently.

“Marchwood wants me to back off the investigation and releases Jack if I do.”

“Which I think we both know is terribly unlikely.”

“Yes,” agreed Fiona, still considering the options. “It is possible that he’ll want a head start escaping Casablanca, and will release Jack once he’s made his escape.”

“Would you give him one?”

Fiona seemed to think for a minute. “I found the bastard once, I can find him again. If letting him go means less blood spilled…”

Phryne nodded. If Fiona had felt otherwise, she would have contacted Marchwood alone. Getting Jack out was her priority.

“And if it’s a trap?” Phryne asked.

“I think it’s a fair assumption that it will be, and he’ll know we’re expecting one.”

“What kind?” Phryne asked.

“If he’s trying to keep his old life separate from his new one, my guess is that he’ll be alone. Maybe one or two men at the perimeters so we can’t pursue him. He’ll likely back us into a corner, and there’s no guarantee Jack will be there. Marchwood may move him ahead of time, or he could already be held elsewhere.”

Phryne had never been particularly skilled at strategising; go in with enough confidence and firepower and she could bluff her way through most things. Jack’s methodical nature and experience with raids was what this situation required, and he was on the wrong end of the planning. Phryne tried to imagine what he would do—strategise, make alternative plans until every eventuality was uncovered, direct his fury—and wanted to scream at the sheer futility. It was no use: she wasn’t Jack Robinson. But she _was_ Phryne Fisher, and if the cautious route didn’t suit her she would find one that did. 

“Do you have a gun?” she asked Fiona.

“Several.”

“You trust me?”

“I… yes.”

Phryne took a deep breath. “Good. Because we’re going to walk straight into that trap and figure it out when we get there.”

———

Phryne stared up at the warehouse, hand drifting to the pocket of her beige duster coat—both the gun and the watch could be felt through the fabric, each reassuring in their own way. Fiona stood beside her; she could practically feel the other woman evaluating the building for escape routes.

“Ready?” Phryne asked briskly.

“Ready.”

Reminding herself that there would be no second chances, Phryne strode towards the door with all the confidence she could muster. It was quite a bit, actually, which was vaguely reassuring—she had not lost her independence, it seemed. The heavy metal door to the warehouse clanged behind them as they strode forward; a man met them just inside the building.

“Fiona!” he exclaimed with a great deal of forced joviality.

“You are not dealing with her, Mr. Marchwood,” Phryne said firmly, extending a hand. “Phryne Fisher. I believe you have something that belongs to me?”

He looked at her suspiciously, raising one eyebrow at her forthright attitude. Good. Perhaps she could steamroll him into compliance more easily than anticipated.

“Please, come through to my office,” he said, gesturing down the hall and avoiding her offered handshake. Well, it would take more than that to throw her off-balance. Phryne matched him step for step as they reached the office, a number emblazoned on the door rather than a name; the building seemed otherwise empty, confirming Fiona’s suspicions it was not currently in use for his smuggled goods. Marchwood took a seat behind a enormous oak desk and indicated the chairs opposite for Phryne and Fiona to sit in.

They did, and Phryne crossed her legs at the knee and looked over Marchwood’s office with a gaze of disinterest. It was terribly impersonal, despite the desk intended for intimidation, and Phryne presumed he did not spend a large amount of time there.

“Now, Miss Fisher—”

“You have something of mine. Clearly you want something from us. So here is how it is going to play out: You will release Jack Robinson. Once he is freed and I have been assured there is no lasting damage, we will travel back to the hotel and you will be handed all of Fiona’s notes on you. You will then have 48 hours head start—if necessary, I understand you have the Casablanca police in your pay and you can have Fiona held on false charges for that time, but I do insist she is released at the end of it.”

Marchwood scoffed. “I don’t know why you think that you can dictate how this game is played, dearie.”

Phryne smiled. “Why, because I hold all the cards, of course. I am sure whatever hired goon you had trailing us will confirm that we stopped by the telegram office on our way over. Two days ago I sent six copies of Fiona’s notes to close friends around the globe, as a safety precaution. Today I telegraphed them, and eighteen other people to ensure you could not identify them easily, explaining that if they do not hear from me with a pre-arranged codeword by the time the envelope arrives, they are to take it to the nearest government authority. If I do contact them, the envelope is to be burnt without ever being opened. Those are the terms, Mr. Marchwood. Do you agree to them?”

He leant back in his chair, steepling his fingers like some villain in a bad penny dreadful. He was rattled, though, Phryne could see it.

“And why would I believe you, Miss Fisher?”

“Whether or not you believe me is irrelevant. The papers are sent and time is ticking.”

He tsked. “This is quite an elaborate arrangement. How am I to know when the papers are burnt? Or indeed, if they are at all?”

“Even if they are not, Mr. Marchwood, you have escaped detection before and no doubt could again. I would give you my word, but I doubt a man such as yourself has any faith in promises.”

“No,” he agreed.

“So instead I will allow you to be present when I send the telegraphs with the code word included, and you can decide for yourself.”

“I want the telegrams sent before I release my guest into your custody.”

Phryne uncrossed her legs, leaning forward. “Let me make this abundantly clear, Mr. Marchwood. _I am not negotiating_. You can either agree to my terms or face the consequences. There is no third option.”

“I could have this room surrounded by my men,” Marchwood said. “I’m sure we could _encourage_ you to reveal the code word, given enough time and incentive—”

“You don’t,” said Phryne bluntly. “And really, I find this whole ‘criminal mastermind’ spiel incredibly tiresome. Shall we move on?”

There was a hint of hesitation from Marchwood, and Phryne realised she had him ready to flee. Remembering Fiona’s warning that he was not the type she wanted to back into a corner, she leant back and smiled.

“Mr. Marchwood, you are not a stupid man. But I am not a stupid woman, and I don’t appreciate playing games. The choice is, and has always been, yours.”

And then she waited. Fiona had not uttered a word since they had entered the warehouse as agreed, and her unnerving, silent stare certainly added to the intimidation factor. Marchwood shifted, tapping a rhythm against the arm of his chair. Then he sighed, leaning forward; Fiona immediately pulled a gun from her pocket, and Marchwood raised his hands.

“I’m getting the key,” he said, inching forward to extract a key from the top drawer of the desk. He raised it up for them to confirm, then regained some of his confidence. “Very well, Miss Fisher. Shall we?”

Phryne spared a glance at Fiona, who nodded.

“Mr. Marchwood, I’m not entirely certain we trust you. So once again, I present you with two choices: would you prefer to wait here with Fiona, or be secured while you lead us to Inspector Robinson’s holding cell? I’m sure we can find some suitable length of rope,” Phryne smiled a little viciously, “and it’s been awhile since I’ve had to subdue someone without handcuffs. I might be unnecessarily rough.”

“You’re mad, woman,” Marchwood scoffed, attempting to appear indifferent. Phryne had no interest in allowing him to gain the upper hand. 

“I take it you’ll wait here with Fiona like a good little boy then?” Phryne asked, standing and brushing imaginary dirt off her skirt dismissively. “So very kind of you.”

She took the key from his hands, noting the number engraved on it.

“Two doors down,” Marchwood said, confirming her deductions.

Phryne raised an eyebrow and turned, not even deigning to respond. At the door, she paused but did not look back.

“Do try not to shoot him, Fiona. I’d quite like him alive if it turns out he is lying to me.”

Phryne’s heels echoed on the concrete floor as she walked down the hallway, pausing before the door with a corresponding number to the engraving on the key. She pulled out her gun, wary of a trap even if she was willing to trust Fiona’s assessment that Marchwood would be acting alone, and pushed down the fear that threatened to strangle her. Answers she was not entirely sure she wanted were on the other side of that door, and staying away would not change them. Still, she allowed herself a moment of hesitation. Unlocking the padlock and sliding back the bolt, she opened the reinforced steel door and then stepped inside, eyes scanning for ambush.

Seeing no threats in the nearly empty room, Phryne allowed herself to focus on the bed and the man bound to it. He was conscious, and had turned his head to look at her when she’d opened the door, his expression equal parts relief and surprise.

Jack was secured to the iron bed frame by a knot arrangement so thorough Phryne couldn’t even begin to see how to undo it. His legs had been left free, at least, so hopefully his discomfort would be relatively minimal. She gave him a once-over as she hurried across the room, looking for signs of injury; he was in far better condition than she would have expected, all things considered. Aside from the rope burn on his wrists, she didn’t see any obvious open wounds, and though he looked pale—from dehydration, she presumed—he was alert enough. She perched on the edge of the mattress, extracting her dagger.

“Hello Jack,” she said softly, touching his cheek for just a second before beginning to work on his bonds.

His eyes fluttered shut at her touch, his lips parted but no sound came out.

“Hush,” she soothed. “We’ll get you sorted in no time.”

Shaking his head, just a little, he licked his lips and tried again. 

“Orchid,” he croaked, his lips twitching into a hint of his familiar downturned smile.

The tears Phryne had resisted for so long escaped with a harsh sob, her vision blurring even as she continued cutting the rope.

“Don’t you dare make light of this, Jack,” she said, noting with detachment the way her tears darkened the dirtied silk of his pyjamas.

“Of course not, Miss Fisher,” he said, his voice already sounding better.

The rope gave way and he lowered his arms with a deep groan, resting his fingers against her leg. They sat there for a minute, neither one ready to move and break the completely chaste contact. Finally, Phryne moved to twist just enough to remove a flask from her pocket.

“Your best whiskey?”

“Afraid not,” she smiled at his gentle teasing, lifting the flask to his mouth. “Water is far better for dehydration.”

“Yes, nurse.”

He sipped the water slowly, the liquid bringing him back to alertness, and studied Phryne’s face. She looked… well, she’d looked like her lover had just been held captive and she’d gone through hell to find him. He flexed his fingers, which were numb from the bondage, feeling the solidity of her legs as he did so. He nudged the flask of water away, sitting up to meet Phryne’s eyes. His arms felt too heavy to lift, his fingers too clumsy to lace through her hair and pull her in for a kiss as he wanted; he attempted to channel the feelings into his expression instead.

“Phryne, I…”

“Don’t say it. Please,” she said softly. “I’m not sure I could bear it right now.”

“Do I look that bad then?” he joked, giving her a small, reassuring smile.

She laughed, placing her hand to the back of his neck and pressing her forehead against his.

“Absolutely dreadful,” she replied. “But nothing a hot bath won’t put to rights.”

They were still in that position, foreheads touching and eyes locked and saying everything, when two shots rang out in rapid succession.


	5. Chapter 5

The gunshots were sharp and quick, and Phryne was on her feet almost instantly.

“Stay here,” she ordered, knowing Jack was in no shape to follow and would attempt to anyway; at least she could say she’d warned him. Then she was out the door and heading towards the sound, moving silently towards Marchwood’s office with her gun raised.

The door was slightly ajar, and through it she could see Fiona standing with her gun pointed towards something ground level.

Phryne crept closer, swinging the door open far enough she could peek around it. Marchwood was on the ground, unmoving. Likely dead, judging by the amount of blood pooling around him, and if he wasn’t he would be soon. She glanced again at Fiona, who was watching Marchwood with an unreadable expression on her face. Opening the door completely, Phryne stepped inside.

“What happened?” she asked.

Fiona turned, blinking. “Uh, he… he tried to escape.”

“How?” Phryne asked, pocketing her gun and stepping forward to check for a pulse. None; based on closer examination, death had almost certainly been instantaneous.

“We were waiting for you and he started confessing. Names, dates, all of it.”

“He felt guilty?”

“No, I think he enjoyed knowing that he would get away with it. Even if I found him again, there was no way of proving most of this, and he’d be even more cautious next time.”

“Then what happened?” Phryne asked.

“He charged at me, and in the scuffle—Jack! Oh thank God!”

Phryne turned to see that Jack had entered the room, still hideously unsteady on his feet. She moved as if to support him physically, but he waved her away with a tiny gesture.

“What…?” he asked.

“I’m afraid this is my fault, Jack,” said Fiona. “Do you remember Charles Marchwood?”

Jack racked his memory, finally placing an agent he’d worked with a few times. He looked at the body of his abductor, subtracting nearly fifteen years and adding a mustache. He’d thought the man had looked familiar, but never would have placed him. 

“Vaguely. But why abduct me?” 

“Phryne will explain it in more detail,” Fiona said, “but he sold secrets during the war. Hundreds, if not thousands of lives. It’s why I’ve been in Casablanca. He recognised your name, and realised I was here. I’m afraid you were caught in the crossfire, as it were.”

God, his head hurt. He had only properly grasped about half of that.

“Why is he dead?” he asked.

“Failed escape attempt,” said Phryne, sounding… he looked towards her, scrutinising her face—she didn’t look entirely convinced.

“Right,” he said. “Perhaps you ought to explain again, Fiona?”

He had turned towards the blonde too quickly, and his vision swam as a result. Phryne was beside him in an instant—he wasn’t even aware she was moving before he felt her hand on his elbow to keep him upright. 

Phryne moved her hand to his waist, stroking it softly, as Fiona retold the events—Marchwood had bragged, then tried to escape, and in the scuffle the gun had gone off twice. Which was perfectly plausible, but even in Jack’s current state he had questions.

“We’ll have to telephone the police,” he said.

Fiona whistled through her teeth, and beside him Jack felt Phryne tilt her head to catch his attention.

“Perhaps you ought to sit down, darling,” she said, leading him towards one of the visitor’s chairs.

She crouched before him when he took the seat, hands on his knees and facing away from Fiona.

“The police are all in Marchwood’s pay,” said Fiona. “And he has a wife that will keep the payments coming.”

“Surely whichever branch of Intelligence—” Jack began, stopping when he saw Phryne minuscule headshake.

“I left several years ago,” Fiona said with false brightness. “Afraid I’ll have to face the music or not by my own merits.”

“Obsessed,” Phryne mouthed.

Jack dropped his head forward into his hands, partially because his head was pounding but also because it made it easier to speak to Phryne.

“What?”

“Her story doesn’t add up,” whispered Phryne. “The gunshot wounds don’t appear to have been in very close range, and she’s showing no signs of a physical altercation. And why would a notoriously, almost _pathologically_ cautious man run when we promised him freedom?”

“But?” Jack prompted, knowing there was more.

Phryne chewed her bottom lip.

“It’s not impossible. And whatever the outcome of a more thorough investigation would be, she’ll get the death penalty. Presuming a tragic accident doesn’t get her first.”

“Shit. How much time do we have?”

“No idea.”

“We can’t…”

“I can’t see a good option here,” Phryne admitted, running her hand along his thigh.

“Nor I,” said Jack. “A potentially innocent woman dies…”

“Or a potential murderer walks free.”

Jack glanced up and noticed Fiona was watching them.

“I don’t think we’re being entirely subtle,” he whispered to Phryne, and she laughed and leant forward to kiss his forehead.

“We have to decide.”

“What is your intuition telling you?” Jack asked quietly.

“That I’d have killed Marchwood myself if you weren’t alive. And I’d have made it slow.”

“Comforting,” he said dryly, and Phryne laughed again.

“Justice isn’t going to be done by having her arrested,” she said honestly.

Jack nodded, wincing as he did so, and Phryne looked him over once more.

“We need to get you back to the hotel,” she said. “If you disagree, speak now.”

“Do it.”

Phryne stood, lending Jack a hand to stand as well, then pulled a large amount of money from her handbag.

“Fiona, you need to get out of here. Now. Don’t go back to the hotel, don’t say goodbye, just leave.”

“Phryne, Jack, you can’t—”

“Of course we can, and we are,” said Phryne firmly. “Get out of here, and be careful.”

Fiona took the money and embraced them both, tears in her eyes.

“I am so, so sorry I got you two involved in this.”

“It’s not the most dangerous situation we’ve found ourselves in,” Phryne said, waving a hand dismissively, and Fiona gave her a knowing smile.

“Phryne Fisher, you are…” Fiona embraced her again instead of finishing the thought. “And it was good to see you, Jack.”

“And you.”

Pocketing the money and her handgun, Fiona hurried out the door. Phryne watched her leave and then looked to Jack, who was staring at the body of Marchwood.

“Jack…”

“I knew him,” he said, voice catching. “Not well, but I knew him. Trusted him with...”

She touched his arm, knowing there were no words of comfort that would make a difference.

“Let’s go back to the hotel,” she said. “It will be a lot less suspicious if we leave tomorrow as planned.”

He nodded and followed her to the borrowed motorcar; they didn’t speak the entire way back into the city.

———

Phryne sighed as she opened the door to the hotel room, glancing around to make sure nothing had been disturbed. She felt ridiculous, but caught Jack doing the same thing and gave him a small smile before motioning towards the en suite.

“I’ll go check the…”

He tilted his head in acknowledgement, then sat down on the edge of the bed to unbutton his pyjamas—his fingers were slightly slow, his movements restricted, and Phryne wondered exactly how bad the bruising was beneath his clothing. She headed into the bathroom, and when she was certain it was clear, began to run a bath with epsom salts and scented oil from her collection. Washing her hands and face at the sink as it ran, she caught sight of her reflection in the mirror; she looked exhausted, but… content, a tiny smile on her face. It was the oddest feeling. Shutting the water off and closing the door behind her to better trap the steam, Phryne returned to the bedroom. Jack had not moved from the bed, but seemed more himself by the minute. 

“I ran a bath for you,” she said.

“Do you intend on joining me?” he asked, voice low and aiming for seductive; the effect was rather ruined when he yawned, then winced.

“Go soak,” she ordered, resolutely not looking at him. She could imagine slipping into the bath with him: the warmth of the lapping water, his chest pressed against her back, exploring hands… but he needed to soak his aching muscles, not stretch them more.

She deserved a fucking reward for her self-restraint, in her not-so-humble opinion.

Picking up a book, she settled on top of the bed to read while he bathed. Half an hour later she heard a sound and looked up. Jack came out of the en suite, towel slung low on his hips and his hair damp and free, and Phryne had to resist the urge to leap into his arms and shag him senseless from sheer relief. He rolled his shoulders, grimacing.

“Did it help?” Phryne asked.

“Yes. Thank you.”

He crossed the room, coming to lean against the small writing desk in front of her.

“Do you think we made the right call?” he asked sombrely.

“Yes. Do you?”

He thought for a moment, never one to leap into an answer.

“Yes. I suppose. I can’t imagine doing otherwise, at least. But it’s been some time since I’ve dealt with ambiguity at that level,” he admitted. “As a police officer, the law is the law.”

“I’m not sure I believe that, Jack,” she said, her eyes knowing. “And I don’t think you do either.”

His smile twitched.

“No, I suppose not. But there is a lot less grey.”

“I will never stop wondering what you did in the war,” Phryne sighed. “I know you can’t tell me, even if you wanted to, but… when it comes back like this, I wonder.”

He ran his hand over his mouth, and the shifting caused the towel to dip even lower. She felt a flush creep onto her cheeks; she was a grown woman who had seen many naked men, but dear god he was still going to kill her. There was a trail of hair from below his navel to the edge of the towel, and she was filled with the urge to kiss down it. Which was entirely inappropriate, so she forced herself to meet his eyes instead; they were tired, but warm and amused and _Jack_. Which was even harder to resist than his well-toned torso.

“I can tell you what I did not do,” he said, smile teasing. “I did not crash in Madagascar. I did not climb Kilimanjaro. To the best of my knowledge, I have never danced with an English prince or an American film star. There might be a nude painting of me out there, but I prefer to think not.”

“You made the last one up!” she laughed.

“Did I?” he asked, far too innocently.

Phryne narrowed her eyes, suddenly uncertain; when she couldn’t decide, she stood up instead.

“Are you hungry?” she asked brusquely.

“Ahh, no. I should be, but… I think I might just go to bed.”

“I do wish you’d see a doctor,” she said, even though she knew it was ill-advised under the circumstances.

“And say what, Phryne?”

“You were attempting to take down a rhinoceros and stuck yourself with the tranquiliser instead?” she suggested.

He chuckled, pushing off the desk and crossing to the bed.

“Could you not at least choose an animal native to the area?” asked Jack, removing the towel.

“It escaped from someone’s private collection, of course,” she teased, shifting so he could climb beneath the covers. “I’m going to go down to the restaurant for dinner. Unless you need me to stay?”

“It’s seven o‘clock, Miss Fisher. I’m hardly expecting you tucked up tight. Go have dinner, and go dancing if you like. Just lock the door before you go, and keep your eyes open.”

“I’ll be back in an hour,” she promised. “Get some rest.”

He was asleep before she’d changed into an outfit suitable for dinner and reapplied her make-up. She paused in the doorway as she left; he was sprawled beneath the doona and snoring softly. She turned off the light and locked the door, checking the handle twice.

———

Jack woke in the middle of the night, Phryne curled carefully against his side but not touching him. He stood up, creeping through the dark towards the toilet to get a drink and use the facilities. When he came back out, the bedside lamp was on, casting a soft yellow glow, and she was sitting up with her knees drawn to her chin.

“Water,” he explained softly, motioning the other room. “I didn’t mean to wake you up.”

She gave him a small smile, subdued by exhaustion and fear. “I think it might be quite some time before I sleep through you getting out of bed again.”

Chuckling, he came to sit beside her. “I imagine it will be some time before I answer the door in the middle of the night.”

She tilted her head, studying him.

“Are you alright?” she asked.

It would be easily to laugh it off, make a crack about his pride that she would let stand and never talk of it again; the habit had been his preference after the war. He took Phryne’s hand instead.

“I’m sore, and tired, and…” he shrugged. “I’ll muddle through.”

“Not alone,” she said.

“Hmm?”

“You don’t have to muddle through alone. I won’t allow it.”

Her eyes were soft but unwavering, and he raised her hand to his lips to kiss it. “I know.”

“I wasn’t certain we’d find you,” she said quietly. “I told myself we would, wouldn’t let myself consider the alternative, but with all the ships coming in and out of the city…”

“I knew you would,” he replied. “You’re far too determined not to.”

Her laugh was soft, little more than an exhale at the truth to his words. Jack sighed.

“I thought you might be too late though,” he admitted. “I… I had a lot of time to think about my regrets.”

She slipped onto his lap, stroking his hair softly, careful to avoid the lump where he’d been struck by Marchwood’s gun; he wrapped his arms around her waist. They stayed that way for several long minutes, the physical connection saying all that their words had yet not, all the promises they wanted to make.

“Lie down,” Phryne said eventually.

He complied, and she rose from the bed and wrapped a robe around her before selecting a tub of arnica from her bag. She rubbed it onto his bruises and scrapes—his wrists, his shoulders, one along his ribcage—and he began to drift off to sleep again.

“Phryne?” he said, voice rumbling and deep.

“Yes, Jack?”

“I love you.”

She brushed his hair from his forehead, smiling softly.

“I know you do, darling,” she said, kissing the path her fingers had taken. “I love you too.”

He began to snore, and she watched him for several minutes, gut roiling. She’d come so close to losing him, had felt helpless in the face of it; she never wanted to feel that again. She replaced the lid on her arnica and set it on the bedside table, then clicked off the lamp. In the darkness she could hear him breathing; she lay beside him with her fingers resting on his hip, low enough not to brush the bruising but reassuring her of his presence, and wondered what to do about it.

———

The next time Jack woke up, he was alone in the bed and everything hurt. He opened his eyes, trying not to panic, and saw Phryne across the room, fiddling with a tray. It was morning, he realised, and he was starving.

“I thought you might be hungry,” she explained, carrying it over. A full breakfast was spread out, and Jack smiled and took a bite.

“Thank you.”

She nodded rather than reply, and began to pack their bags for the morning flight; she did not quite trust her voice yet.

“Phryne?”

Turning, she forced a false smile onto her face.

“I’m fine, Jack,” she lied, picking up the jar of arnica from the night before. “Do you need this before I pack?”

“No, thank you,” he said, undeterred. “Are you sure that you’re alright?”

She turned away again. She didn’t want to have this conversation _here_ , with the past two days hanging over them. But it needed to be said.

“Marry me.”

“Now I know you’re not alright,” he responded immediately, setting aside his breakfast tray, and she laughed.

“I’m serious,” she asserted, still packing.

“Why?”

“Not quite the response I was hoping for.”

“Well, this wasn’t exactly a conversation I was expecting to have.”

“You know me,” she said, too lightly for it to be the complete truth. “I do hate to be predictable. Answer the question.”

“No.”

“No, you won’t marry me?”

“No, I won’t answer the question. Not until I know why.”

“If you can’t figure that out…”

“The abduction?”

“Yes!”

“Phryne, you can’t propose marriage because I opened the door to the wrong person.”

“I’m—Jack, I’m serious. And it’s not because you opened the wrong door, or that you could have died, or… I’m tired, Jack. I’m tired of never having enough of you. I’m tired of realising that there are all these people in your life who have had you in ways I never will, and that’s alright—you wouldn’t be _you_ if they hadn’t—but…” she let out a frustrated growl and closed the bag, then came to sit on the bed next to him. “Jack, I want to have pieces of you. Not the ones that Rosie or Fiona or Concetta had, because I’m not them. Not those pieces that you keep for yourself, because I wouldn’t ask for something you can’t or don’t want to give. But the rest? I want those, and I intend to keep them, and damned if I can see a way to do so without marriage.”

She was so earnest, so open, and he hated what he was about to say.

“Phryne—”

“Oh, I know we could go back to Melbourne and people would look the other way for awhile. A long while, if we were lucky. But more often than not I would have to wake up alone. We’d have to obscure our connection. I’d have to take the littlest scraps of you and only offer those scraps in return. I don’t want that.”

“Phryne… I don’t want to be married,” he said, seeing her shock and pain, “and it’s not… it’s not you. I want every moment I can have with you. All of those pieces you want? They’ve been yours for a long time. But the legal side of things… no.”

“Then we’ll say we eloped,” she argued. “Stopped off somewhere along the way and tied the knot, and nobody is going to need to see the paperwork.”

“And how is that different from really marrying?” he asked. “People will still expect you to be Mrs. Robinson and for me to—”

“I don’t _care_ what anybody else expects! The difference is that _we_ would know. Hang everybody else and their expectations. Jack, I want to wake up next to you. Not just on weekends, or when you can sneak out the kitchen door before it’s light out. I want to crawl into bed after a very late night of dancing and warm my feet on you. I know it won’t be every night—not with your work, and mine, and I certainly don’t intend to stop travelling—but I want it to be a possibility. And I can’t… that won’t happen without us being married. I’ve been up for hours trying to find another way, and all I’ve done is convince myself that this is what has to happen. What I _want_ to happen. And we are never going to have another chance like this. Nobody is going to be surprised if we come back married—”

“I would.”

“Nobody else would,” she laughed. “But if we go back to Melbourne and realise six months from now that I was right, we won’t be able to travel as far—unless you want to quit your job, and really neither of us want that—and we’d hurt the people we love by excluding them.”

“And what if six months from now we discover we hate each other?”

She raised an eyebrow instead of replying.

“I’m just saying, Phryne… I’ve rushed into a marriage before, and it didn’t work out.”

“This is hardly rushing into matters.”

“Six weeks is definitely rushing into matters.”

“But it’s not been six weeks,” she said. “We’ve been dancing around this for over a year. We’ve disagreed, and we’ve… we’ve had our differences. Some of them pretty big. But we got past them. We both know what we want and aren’t afraid to say so. There is…” she swallowed hard, determined not to cry. “There is nobody in this world, save Mac, that I trust as much as I trust you. I know that even when we disagree we are on the same side; we get there by different routes, but…”

It was no use; the tears had escaped against her will, and once they started she could not get them to stop. Then Jack was crying too, and the whole thing was so utterly ridiculous she pressed her forehead against his and laughed.

“Jack Robinson,” she said, her hands lacing behind his head and holding him close, “will you marry me?”

“Absolutely not,” he said, smiling.

“No?” she replied, teasing the corner of his mouth with her tongue.

“And as for this elopement…” he said, his hand slipping beneath the hem of her blouse to caress her skin. “It’s an utterly preposterous idea.”

“It is,” she breathed.

“It’s impulsive.”

“Yes.”

“It’s—”

“Jack.”

“Yes?”

“Just shut up and kiss me.”

He did. When they pulled apart, breathing hard, he smiled.

“Just one question then,” he said, expression sombre.

“What?”

“Do I have to call you Mrs. Robinson?”

Her laughter bubbled up, filling the room, and she shook her head.

“I imagine Phryne would be fine.”


	6. Chapter 6

**February 1933**

Phryne was humming as she danced up the path to Wardlow, crossing paths with the milkman. She had had a perfectly lovely evening—and morning, really, the sun already up—and was now looking forward to a long morning in bed before she had to pack. Mr. Butler opened the door as she arrived, taking the milk she held in her hands, and smiled.

“I’m not at home to anybody until at least two o’clock,” she said.

“Of course, miss.” 

Draping her fur stole across the banister as she began to climb the stairs, she continued dancing to the music still in her head. The bedroom was dark, curtains firmly closed, and she quickly undid the buttons on her dress and allowed it to fall to the floor as she made her way to the bed.

“I better not trip on that when I get up,” mumbled a voice, and Phryne laughed as she drew back the blankets.

“You know it’s there, Jack. If you trip over it, it will be your own fault,” she said, sliding in next to him. He opened his arms and she nestled against his chest.

“Did you have a good night?” he asked, still half-asleep.

“Mmm, lovely.”

“I take it you didn’t meet any particularly dashing men?”

“One or two,” she purred, twisting her head to look at him. “I was even invited to an after-after-party.”

Even in the relative darkness she could see the contented smile on his face, and felt his knuckle trail over her back.

“And you declined?”

“Mmm, I wanted to wake up with you.”

He chuckled and drew her closer, pressing a kiss to her hair.

“You’ll be fast asleep when I get up,” he pointed out.

“Yes, but this is my favourite half hour of my day,” she said.

It was his as well, though he would never admit it. A relaxed, sleepy Phryne draped over him, smelling of sweat and perfume and champagne—and, very likely, soon sex—and both of them happy and at ease. It seemed that no matter what difficulties life had thrown at them—and there had been plenty—this moment saw them through.

“I don’t think I can get back to sleep,” he rumbled after awhile, just to feel the way she arched her body against him in response.

“Whatever will we do with our time then?” she asked with surprisingly believable innocence.

“I suppose I could get up, linger over the newspaper…”

She laughed loudly, sitting up and then moving to straddle him. Her fingers swiftly undid the buttons on his pyjama top, allowing it to fall open and kissing down his exposed chest.

“I can think of activities that are more agreeable to us both, and you needn’t leave the bed,” she murmured, reaching the waistband of his trousers and returning to the hollow at the base of his throat.

“Amorous activities?” he asked, smiling. “You’ll scandalise me, Miss Fisher.”

“You love it.”

“I love you.”

“Which is quite fortunate, because I’m rather fond of you too.”

He grasped her hips, rolling them both over.

“Jack!” she squealed. “Behave yourself.”

“Why should I, Miss Fisher?” he asked, nuzzling her neck. “You never do.”

“Well, when being bad feels this good, I hardly have an incentive.”

“And so you lead me into temptation…”

“And deliver you from evil?”

“Hardly,” he said, voice wry. “Evil has a peculiar habit of seeking you out.”

“On that unfortunate note,” she sighed, “I’ve been asked to consult on a case in Sydney.”

“Now?” he asked, making his own trail of kisses from neck to navel, lifting off her camisole as he did so.

“I’ll leave tonight or tomorrow morning.”

She ran her fingers through his hair, pulling it lightly until he groaned.

“Will you be back in time?” he asked, working on removing her tap pants now. 

“I’m afraid we may need to reschedule our plans,” she admitted; they were supposed to leave in a few days to spend a long weekend at a seaside cottage near Queenscliff. “Or alter them at least.”

He] looked up at her, grinning. “You cannot possibly be suggesting a busman’s holiday?”

Shrugging cheekily, Phryne stroked his hair.

“It’s nearly inevitable, darling. At least this way we’ll know from the outset what we’re investigating?”

“There is that.”

“And I’m sure we can attend the theatre while we’re visiting. I have the most gorgeous new gown I’ve been dying to wear, and it rather matches that lovely blue dinner jacket of yours,” she said, smiling. “We’ll be the best-looking couple there, sure to make the society pages.”

“I haven’t agreed to going, yet,” he pointed out, “and I’m not sure that’s the way to persuade me.”

“Oh, that wasn’t meant to persuade you. The promise of getting to escort me around the town and then bring me home and undress me, however…”

“That seems like quite a lot of work when I already have you naked in bed,” he teased, moving up to kiss her mouth.

When they broke apart, Phryne stroked his cheek. His hands were decidedly lower.

“Very well then,” she scolded, gasping at a particularly clever stroke of his fingers before regaining her reprimanding tone. “I had hoped not to bring this up, but needs must. Just think of the scandal you’d cause, abandoning your beautiful wife to the mercies of a new city’s society…” 

“I’d have a lot more concern for the society I’d be unleashing you upon, Miss Fisher.”

She laughed again, tugging down his pyjama trousers.

“Then you’ll have to come just to keep me out of trouble.”

“I’m not certain that’s possible,” he cheeked.

Nipping his shoulder, she rolled them both over and raised his hands above his head.

“You’re being terribly naughty.”

Smiling, she bent down to tug at his bottom lip.

“What are you going to do about it?” he challenged, glancing deliberately at his bedside table where his tie lay.

“You _planned_ this,” accused Phryne.

“How could I? I wasn’t even sure when you’d get home,” he said, smirking up at her. She raised a doubtful eyebrow, and he amended his statement. “I planned for the _possibility_.”

Leaning over, she grabbed the silk tie and ran it through her fingers, marvelling at his timing. After Casablanca, they had avoided this particular experience; there had been plenty of other things to explore, and neither of them could quite forget the near miss and what-could-have-beens. And then one day Jack had asked her, with no particular lead-up, and she’d obliged; the image of him bound had sent a spike of panic through her and she’d hastily unknotted it, feeling ridiculous that it had bothered her more than him. But they had tried again, in different locations, in binding Phryne (definitely pleasant and to be repeated, did not address the underlying issue), in using the loosest of slip knots he could remove himself, until the memory no longer held power over either of them.

Taking Jack’s large hands in hers, Phryne deftly wound the silk around his wrists, covering the few small scars those rope burns had left behind. 

“What’s the word?” she asked, encouraging him to raise his arms so she could secure the bindings to the bed.

“Kumquat,” he supplied dutifully, the word chosen simply because it made Phryne smile.

“Very good,” she praised, rubbing her cheek against his morning stubble like a cat. 

Then she pulled back to look into his eyes; more sunlight had begun to seep through the window as they’d talked, the light playing across his features, and she felt a rush of affection for this wonderful man who, despite all their expectations and fears, shared a life with her.

“Jack Robinson,” she mused, smiling, “what am I to do with you?”

“If you don’t know by now, Miss Fisher, there’s no hope.”

Leaning down again, she scraped her teeth along his neck and felt him shiver.

“I suppose I’ll just have to improvise.” 

———

Stepping off the train, Phyne took Jack’s arm and led him towards the exit, a porter following behind with their bags.

“Where are we going?” he asked in exasperation—she’d been deliberately secretive about the source of her case.

“To meet my client,” she replied.

“Who is…?”

“Well, I have my suspicions, but I don’t know for certain.”

Jack stopped in his tracks, folding his arms.

“Phryne?”

She peered over his shoulder instead of replying, seeing exactly who she had expected when she’d received the letter the day before. The writer’s hair was shorter, and the Australian sun had darkened her skin, but she was still undeniably Fiona.

“Look behind you, Jack,” she said, and he turned.

His smile lit up his entire face, and he stepped forward to shake her hand.

“Miss—”

“Mrs. Furroughs, nowadays,” Fiona laughed. “It is wonderful to see you both. Come, James will be so happy to meet you.”

  



End file.
